by Maeve Haran
Angela looked him over. Was that just a lucky guess or had Hugo been doing his homework? Everyone googled each other in London, it was true, though she seemed so far away from that world of competition and mutual measuring that it struck her as odd and faintly unpleasant.
‘Yes, I did go to Oxford, but only for a year.’
‘Why was that?’
She shrugged. ‘Let’s enjoy the view. I’m told this is one of the most beautiful coastlines on the planet.’
‘It is. Sorry, you start to take it for granted.’
They swept round the bay in a giant arc and overtook the hydrofoil. One or two of the passengers waved. Angela waved back, feeling rather stupid, then she willed herself to enjoy it. The noise of the engine and the slap of waves against the hull were so loud that it was difficult to talk unless you shouted, so thankfully she gave up on conversation with Hugo.
And it was true, the scenery was wonderful. The sea was a deep turquoise, shaded at the edges with paler blue like an ombre silk. How silly to see a likeness with fashion; Angela laughed at herself. Behind them, Lerini, with its pale pastel houses and yellow-painted duomo, clung to the shoreline, and above it, Lanzarella, like a jewel, was set into the rock face. She could just make out the statues that lined the lowest terrace of the Villa Le Sirenuse. In front of them, the island of Capri tempted both the history-lover and the serious shopper.
‘Good thing it’s off-season,’ Hugo shouted as he quietened the engine. The sea became flat as they headed in towards their destination. ‘We’re here before the beautiful people, thank God. I once saw a girl in a leather bikini leading a Borzoi along the seafront in August. That’s Positano for you.’
They moored the boat and walked up the steps into the town, passing a string of lively beachside bars and cafes. A stunning young woman in a tiny white minidress with knee-length boots and a straw cowboy hat walked past them.
‘I see what you mean.’
‘Do you want to look around and shop a little? I’m not sure Positano style is up your street, but it might be fun.’
‘And what do you mean by that?’ Angela enquired, wondering if he was implying it was only for the young.
‘You’ll see.’
They turned towards a tiny street, lined on both sides with boutiques selling white lawn dresses, like sawn-off Victorian nighties, identical to the one worn by the girl on the quay. ‘My gran would say, “She’s no better than she should be in that dress”,’ Angela laughed.
‘Mine wouldn’t. She was a stripper at the Moulin Rouge.’
Angela looked at him in amazement. ‘You have had a colourful life.’
‘I’ll tell you about it when we’re walking. Walking always leads to self-disclosure, I find.’
Angela looked at him curiously. She’d been prepared to distrust and dislike him, but she was finding it harder than she expected.
‘How about that?’ Hugo suggested, pointing to a shop that seemed entirely full of fake flowers. Fake flowers were loaded onto hats, bags, belts and the hems of dresses. ‘That looks just your style.’
‘If you want to look like Eliza Doolittle at Glastonbury Festival.’
The next little street was full of sandal shops where Angela spotted an elegant pair of silver sandals. She decided to buy them, despite knowing that she could get them cheaper in London. It was fun to find something in places you visited. You got the wear plus the added pleasure of the memory.
‘Very you,’ Hugo approved.
‘Now what do you mean by that exactly?’
‘Simple, sophisticated, elegant. Rather like that.’ He pointed to a necklace in the next shop window. It was a pendant made of some kind of ceramic, glazed in a dark green with intriguing splashes of silver and a tiny silver disc at its centre. The annoying thing was, she might well have picked it out herself.
‘Do you like it?’
Angela nodded and, before she could stop him, he had disappeared into the shop and emerged with a small package tied up with lavender ribbon.
‘For heaven’s sake, you didn’t need to do that.’
He grinned. ‘My grandmother, the celebrated stripper, could have taught you a thing or two about how to accept presents from gentlemen.’
‘I’m sure she could. In fact, I can hear her saying, “Take the bloody present and stop making a fuss”.’
‘Actually, it’d be more like, “What’s this stupid bit of pottery? Show me the diamonds”. Now we have a major decision. Walk first and lunch after, or the other way round?’
‘Oh I think walk first, don’t you? As long as we can turn round when we’re hungry and head for a restaurant.’
‘You’re a woman of decision, I can see. Thus it shall be. The easiest way to get to the start of the path is by bus.’
‘You disappoint me. After the speedboat, I’d have expected a helicopter, no less.’
‘The helicopters are all booked by the shady people who own private islands.’
‘There can’t be private islands here!’
‘Indeed there are. Nureyev owned one.’
To Angela’s amusement they had to buy their bus tickets from the tobacconists. It seemed so Italian somehow.
The journey was a ten-minute ride up the mountain. ‘You’ve been very frank about what you think of me,’ Angela stated, ‘so I’ll be the same. I just don’t see you on a bus.’
‘You mean because of my suave James Bond manner in arriving to collect you in a speedboat?’
She looked at his perfectly ironed chinos and immaculate crisp blue shirt. It hardly seemed the outfit for a strenuous walk. ‘More that I can’t picture you nipping into Snow & Rock or The North Face to pick walking gear.’
‘I should hope not. But then, what I have in mind today is a light stroll. We will let the serious walkers overtake us.’
‘Will we now? Maybe you have underestimated my competitive side.’
‘I’m sure you’ve got a very competitive side. You strike me as an eminently competent woman.’
‘Don’t say that. That’s how my father used to describe my mother’s best friend. And he loathed her.’
The bus stopped at what was clearly its final destination and it emptied. Everyone else was far better equipped for walking than they were, though Angela at least produced a pair of trainers from her voluminous shoulder bag.
‘Are you really going to walk in those?’ She indicated his smart brown loafers.
‘Absolutely. These are Timberlands. I could walk five hundred miles in these, as the Proclaimers put it.’
‘I certainly hope not. I was thinking more of two or three.’
Angela had to admit that the walk was stunning. A narrow path looked straight down a thousand feet to a duck-egg blue sea, the air so clear you could almost taste it, and all around was the scent of thyme and wild freesia.
‘You can see why they call it the Path of the Gods,’ Hugo pointed out.
‘I’d better look out for some, then.’ Angela pretended to glance behind her. ‘Pan maybe, or one of those unfortunate nymphs who were always being turned into something nasty by Hera for attracting too much attention from Zeus.’
They walked on in peace, overtaken not by a nymph or goddess, but by people with backpacks and those funny ski-pole things that shout ‘I’m a serious walker, get out of my way.’
Some of them looked curiously at Hugo. It wasn’t often that people appeared on this path in chinos and loafers, Angela guessed, and especially if they showed not the slightest sign of exertion.
To her surprise, she found that she didn’t feel the need to talk all the time and neither did Hugo. They listened instead to the silence and birdsong.
‘It really is amazing.’ Angela breathed in the air and closed her eyes.
‘Hungry yet?’
‘I am, as a matter of fact.’
‘Good, because I’ve just spotted an entire walking club approaching from the other direction. Fortunately, I know a little restaurant not far away.’
> Angela grinned.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘You strike me as the kind of man who always knows a little restaurant.’
‘Is that a bad thing? You should be grateful I’m not abandoning you to the parka hordes. I’ve heard they give no quarter,’ he added with a twinkle. ‘Especially to the women.’
‘Maybe I’ll stay on, then,’ Angela replied, then looked quickly away. Angela Williams, she told herself, you’re flirting with the enemy!
It turned out to be a delightfully unpretentious clifftop restaurant half full of tourists, the odd walker and a couple of local families. One table, Angela noted, was made up of six rather sober-looking Americans, who were determinedly drinking water, while next to them a French couple were already into their second bottle of rosé.
The owner nodded to Hugo but was oddly unwelcoming as they were shown to a table.
How strange, when he was bringing them business. Maybe they thought he was a city slicker or someone from a yacht who’d be a difficult customer.
Angela wondered what Hugo would opt for. Some grand wine to impress her?
She was quite surprised when it turned out to be half a carafe of the local red.
‘They make it themselves. It’s excellent. Anything you fancy?’
Angela scanned the menu. It all looked a bit samey. The inevitable caprese salad of tomatoes and mozzarella, various pastas, a fish stew, veal chops.
‘I apologize. It’s often worth asking about what isn’t on the menu.’ He called over the waiter.
It turned out to be zucchini in tempura with parmesan, and a black risotto. Angela ordered them both and Hugo did the same.
‘So,’ Angela couldn’t wait to ask, ‘tell me the story of your grandmother the stripper.’
‘She was a very classy stripper, of course. She had a celebrated aquatic act, swimming with dolphins.’
‘Sounds rather charming.’
‘Yes. The dolphins removed her bra and knickers.’
Angela was glad she wasn’t drinking her wine or she would have choked.
‘It made her quite famous.’
‘I imagine it would.’
‘And then she met my grandfather. He was some minor British aristocrat, very eccentric. An early conservationist.’
‘Perhaps that was what drew him to your grandmother.’
‘Why on earth?’
‘So he could save the dolphins. It must have been quite cruel to them, you know.’
Hugo couldn’t stop laughing. ‘How very British. I don’t think it was the dolphins he was thinking of. And of course they moved to Italy and lived in the Villa Le Sirenuse.’
Angela almost spilt her wine. ‘I didn’t know they lived in the villa.’
‘Oh yes. Until my grandfather gave up conservation and got into gambling.’
‘Oh dear. He should have stuck with the dolphins.’
‘So they had to sell. The new owner just neglected it; that was why it was such a wreck when your friend Stephen and his wife found it.’
The zucchini arrived. They were the best Angela had ever tasted.
‘So how did your family get into hotels?’
‘After my grandfather went bankrupt, my father had to start from scratch. No silver spoon for him. He rented a convent in Lanzarella from the nuns and turned it into a small hotel.’
‘There seem to be a lot of convents in Lanzarella.’
‘In medieval times a lot of ladies became nuns. If they couldn’t find a husband, it was far more pleasant than being a poor relation. Especially if their family endowed the place.’
The risotto suddenly appeared and Angela had to admit it was completely wonderful.
‘So did you grow up in hotels?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘Brazil, Buenos Aires, Fiesole, and then here.’
‘How was that?’
‘Strange. Your classmates always wanted to come and stay, especially when I was a teenager, but you never knew if it was for you or the minibar.’
He raised his glass. ‘Anyway, welcome to Italy. I hope you’re enjoying it.’
‘I am indeed. Far more than I expected.’ They clinked glasses. ‘And now I suppose I’d better ask you the million-euro question. Why did you invite me? To try to get me to talk Stephen into selling?’
‘Wouldn’t that be a little unsubtle? You’re an experienced businesswoman – indeed, the tough blonde on a TV show, or so I’m told – wouldn’t I be a little foolish to imagine I could win you over with my rather fading glamour and charming ways?’
She studied him over the rim of her glass.
There was a slight air of the passé playboy about him. Something to do with his hair being a shade too long and the way he habitually tucked it behind his ears, and maybe he was a tad too generous with the cologne. But all in all, the package certainly wasn’t unattractive.
Angela shook her head. ‘I’m not so sure about the fading, so why did you ask me?’
‘As a matter of fact, I asked you because I liked you. Italian women are beautiful but complicated, you seemed straightforward and it was a breath of fresh air.’
Angela studied him sceptically. ‘You obviously make up your mind about people quickly.’
His eyes held hers for a second. ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’
The waiter arrived with the dessert menu and for once Angela didn’t brush him off with her usual ‘I don’t eat puddings’ announcement.
‘The cheesecake is very good. It’s made of passion fruit.’
They both laughed.
‘We’ll have one of those. And two spoons. And two espressos, grazie.’
‘How did you know I like espresso?’ she asked him. ‘I might have wanted a macchiato or even a cappuccino.’
He shook his head, smiling. ‘You would have the taste to know that cappuccino is for breakfast.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We’d better hurry with the coffee if we want to catch that bus.’
She reached for her wallet. Hugo took her wrist in his strong grip. ‘No. You are in Italy. My territory. I pay.’
Angela knew arguing would be undignified and somehow she rather liked it. The old Angela would have been livid, but this Angela, the one who’d taken off her metaphorical suit, was perfectly happy. What was happening to her in this soft Italian spring?
Hugo was speaking again. ‘By the way,’ he added, a slightly new note in his voice, ‘your friend Claire – she’s been seen in the company of Luca Mangiani.’
‘Luca the lemon producer? She has been looking around his lemon groves certainly,’ Angela’s tone was wary. ‘He is the nephew of lovely Beatrice, our housekeeper.’
‘Tell your friend Luca is not the simple lemon grower, full of passion for the land. There are things in his past. Ask her to find out why he gave up being a lawyer so suddenly. Was it really all about his precious lemons?’
‘Look, Hugo, I really don’t think this is the business of either of us,’ Angela cut him off.
‘I hope you’re right, Angela.’ He shrugged.
‘Are you really going to Constantine’s studio?’ Claire asked Monica. ‘Giovanni says no one from the town ever goes there.’
‘Why, is he like Bluebeard and his many wives?’
‘More like Bluebeard and his many boyfriends.’
‘I expect I’ll be all right, then.’
Monica took the path through the rhododendron bushes which led further round the hillside. A few minutes later she was greeted by furious barking and Spaghetti appeared, looking remarkably fierce for a small furry animal.
Monica emerged from the overgrown path onto a sunny terrace at the back of the house where a smiling young man of indeterminate age stepped forward to welcome her. ‘Signorina Monica. Il Capo is inside.’ He led Monica and the still-yapping dog into a whitewashed building. Constantine, in his increasingly shabby trench coat, rose to his feet. ‘Thanks, Guido. Welcome to my eyrie. Would you like to look around?’
With a hint of pride disguised by his constant co
mplaining about this and that, Constantine took her on a tour of his extraordinary home and studio. It was a large modern building which had been literally hewn out of the cliff face, so that it had more in common with a cave or bird’s nest than any house she’d ever seen before.
‘God knows how they did it,’ Constantine agreed. ‘Amazing, isn’t it? The whole thing was done by men with pickaxes lowered on slings. Just as well they weren’t into health and safety.’
Inside it was open-plan and dazzlingly white. A whole wall was devoted to a vast mosaic of Jonah being devoured by a whale who looked more like a demon, complete with wings and clawed feet.
‘Copied from Ravello Cathedral. I love the fact that Jonah appears to be waving goodbye.’ He indicated the naked and bald Jonah with his hand raised in what did indeed look remarkably like a farewell wave. ‘I like to think he’s saying, “See you in three days, loveys”. Outside is even better.’
He led her proudly past a tiled terrace so hot you could even feel it through your shoes, to secluded shady paths which could almost have been in an English woodland, apart from the occasional carved stone lion or giant urn full of brightly coloured flowers.
‘I find I like the shade more than the sun these days. It’s about getting old. I am drawn towards the night in life’s diurnal run. That and I keep reading Donne. I half suspect he loved death more than life.’ They had come out onto a shady platform housing a small swimming pool full of water as green as a newly unfurling fern.
‘Do you fancy a dip? I won’t look.’
‘I’m not sure about the colour,’ was Monica’s dubious reply.
‘Hockney wouldn’t like it, but then I think Hockney’s overrated. Guido checks it every morning. It’s perfectly safe. You’ve met Guido – he’s my eyes and ears in the outside world. A delightful young man but not quite all there, as we used to say. A lot of Italian families have a Guido. He doesn’t like his. They’re cruel to him and say he’s useless, so he works for me. He hears everything because no one bothers to be discreet in front of him. A great mistake, as it happens. Here he is with some refreshment.’
Guido appeared carrying a tray with two glasses of a bright orange drink. ‘Aperol. I loathe the stuff but that means I don’t drink the whole bottle. Quite a risk when you’re a recluse. I wouldn’t be surprised if that saint who stood on the pillar for forty years did it to keep off the sauce. Must be quite hard to order a G&T when you’re thirty feet up.’